Just Dreams
by Elle Austen
Summary: Harry/Draco. Sexual content. Strong language. One day is too long for The Boy Who Lived, plagued by the memory of a shoddy flat in Hogsmeade and the hungry blue-grey eyes of a blonde wizard.
1. Venom

He leaned against the wall of Hog's Head. His long, black cloak dusted with the light clingers-on of first snow. He tilted his square jaw against the wind, bringing a cupped hand to his mouth to catch the flame of his wand against the tip of a cigarette. The smoke melded with his breath in the icy air. His head, tilted. Lips parted. And then his eyes - two blue crystals in a sheet of grey.

At dawn's first light the streets were empty. No footprints in the soft snow save my own. Still I kept my distance, as always, five meters away with my hands jammed into the pockets of my trousers and my hair, disheveled and sprinkled with crystalline stars, flopped over my face to hide my nose from the reddening bite of January in Britain.

"Come here." He said in a guttural tone between the escaping swirl of pungent smoke, and his voice snaked around my head, compelling me to turn it away. Running my hand over the back of my neck, I caught the quarter-inch of stubble forming on my jaw. My head hurt, dull, pain behind the eyes. Tired.

"No one's around. Just come here."

He dropped the cigarette onto the ground and pressed it out with the patent leather toe of his oxford shoes. How long had I been standing there, watching him? My legs moved without me. I felt small. But if I head learned to read those azurite eyes at all over the years, that's not the way he saw me. Pupils dilated. His long fingers wrapped around my wrist and two pressed down gently to feel the flutter of my pulse. He smelled like muggle tobacco and pine tar soap, like blowing the dust off of an old tome, like some ancient secret. Fuck.

In an instant his hand flicked up in front of his face, checking the time on the wristwatch that he wore on the inside of his wrist. I had memorized the eighteen ticking hands on that glass face, but only the simple, leather band shone in front of my nose.

"It's half-past six." He said, "Why are you always in a rush?"

"Draco."

"Harry." He dragged the A in my name on like a disappointed mother. "Is it because you haven't shaved your face since before Christmas time? Need to sneak home before Weasley catches you looking all grown up?" He punctuated the last three words. The left half of his mouth formed a smile and I wondered if the venom in his voice is genetic or if it was taught to him as a child.

"I need some sleep. I'm hungover. I'm tired."

"Did Jesus Christ ever sleep, I wonder?"

"Not with you around."

He smiled, fully. Big, perfect white teeth like the bars of a cage, locking away that venomous kiss.

"Catch you later, kid."

I turned away and pulled the hood of my cloak over my mess of black tendrils. That fucking smell clinging to the inside of my nose like a parasite. Heart racing. Cold sweat clinging to my chest. And I was gone.

—

Lowering my body into the warm, swirling water of the fifth floor prefect's bathroom, I closed my eyes for what felt like the first time. My body wracked with the feeling of having a train parked inside of it, and somehow feeling a sense of emptiness and loneliness as well. It was one I had grown to welcome over the years as the recognition that I am still relatively human. I rubbed my jaw. Clean, aside from the knick below my left ear where the straight razor burned me. My full, black eyebrows furrowed above two deep blue eyes as I watched the stained glass mermaid braid and unbraid her golden locks in the window above the glistening silver faucet.

I awoke with a start. The chime of a bells echoing through the halls. Ding-ding-ding ding. There was a white towel folded on the dry, tiled floor of the bath hall when I reached my hand out, unseeing, to grab at anything with a mitt of pruned fingers. Magic. I wrapped it around my waist. Looked in the patinated silver mirror and checked the knick on my neck. Almost healed. I turned away and then turned back. Creases were forming at the corners of my eyes, subtle, but there. I'm getting older. Imagine that. My petite frame was still graced with broad shoulders, strong arms. Curls of black hair enveloped my chest. I held the towel around my waist with a clenched fist and ran my fingers through my hair. Needs cut.

"Harry!"

In the doorway was Ron Weasley. Looking dashing in one of his mothers famous Christmas sweaters. His lumbering frame graced only by his high-and-tight red hair and the truest smile I had ever known. I grinned like a mad man.

"You need a haircut." He proclaimed. "Shit. Put on some clothes, you monster. I'm gonna be sick."

—

Though Ron Weasley was one of a million red-headed buffoons, I swear there was no other wizard like the man - savior of my misfortune, keeper of my secrets. At breakfast, he opened his mouth to speak but shoved a sweet roll in it instead. The next seat over, Hermione Granger, my loveliest lady, was engaged in a conversation with Parvati Patil about holiday. Through a gasp of air Ron spoke,

"What did you do over break, Harry? We hardly heard from you. You almost never wrote." Ah, Ron. Keeper of my secrets.

"Worked, mostly." I lied. "Read up. Practiced. I'm sorry I didn't write. It was terribly dull but somehow wholly consuming. I can't believe classes are already to begin. What about you? I like the sweater. Chic." The final word slipped from my tongue and punctuated the sentence like a rock in a puddle. Ron beamed. Though his knowledge of the word chic was limited, he knew to take it as a sarcastic compliment. I felt instantly red.

As we worked through coffee and toast, Hermione filling in on the holiday break in full detail, I found myself glancing around the room between anecdotes. My eyes pierced and ears pricked, like a wild cat, ever looking for the one opportunity to catch his eyes. It happened just after fig jelly.

Through the buzzing of the Great Hall came the distinctive clip-clip of his shoes. The brush of his fingers on my back, so subtle. And that smell. I turned to catch the devil in his eyes and returned to the conversation greeted by the scowling faces of my best friends, warding off the hallowed snake as they always had. Their anger was unmatched.

My head filled with the dreamy thoughts of a time that now seemed so far away. My ears burned. I allowed myself the pleasure of one split-second of that daydream, closing my eyes only to see the full detail of the sin that is Draco Lucius Malfoy. Ashen hair pushed back - neck arched - chest, perfect, glistening - sweat - abs solid, resonating.

"You okay, Harry?"

"Hmm? Yeah. Sorry guys. I'm tired. I fell asleep in the tub." I gestured to Ron with my toast as a measure of thank you for knowing where to find me.

"You're not having nightmares again, are you?" Hermione asked, earnestly.

"Nightmares? No. Just dreams."

—

I flopped down on my bed. Ron adjacent me. They were the same ones that we had claimed so many years prior. Now, Ron's long, tree trunk legs hung down over the the end of it as he used one foot to remove the sweaty sock of the other, groaning and hot after an afternoon practicing Quidditch.

We laid in silence, only our heavy breathing filling the small dormitory. Until, from her cage, Hedwig fluttered her snowy wings and cooed softly.

"I'm going to take a shower." Ron announced, as he always feels the need to to when he gets up to leave the room. "Then chess?" He asked. His puppy eyes filling with longing and excitement to be reunited with his best friend. I loved the guy, I really did. I wanted to tell him everything. My chest felt heavy with the weight of the last year.

"I've been practicing." I lied. And he laughed, in an honest but sad sort of way, because he can read right through me.

—

As evening began to fall and the halls of the school cleared of the ruddy faces of Hogwarts hangers-on, I found myself strolling casually but distantly though the first floor corridor. I had decided to let my feet take me where they will, but I knew very well where they were going. Soon I would find myself before the long stretch of wall that would lead to the Slytherin dormitories, just as I had a year prior, chasing those icy eyes. That venomous kiss. Behind me, the sound of feet filled the hall, three, maybe four students, I didn't look. I especially didn't when from amongst the clutter came the clip-clip of a pair of patent leather, oxford shoes. Instead, I bristled.

"Get out of my way, Potter." He spat.

"Potter?" I hissed, pronouncing my name as he does. "I'm going to need a glacius charm for that burn."

He snapped to attention, turning course from his jaunt past me. Using one long, delicate hand he maneuvered me into an isolated corner of the hall. He pressed me against the cold stone wall, the blades of my shoulders digging into the bones of the old school. He leaned towards me, mouth just a few centimeters in front of my own, stealing my breath.

"Fuck, Draco." I whispered. The heat of his body so close to my own alit me. "When can I see you again?"

His tone softened. He took a step back and his mouth formed a perfect, practiced frown.

"What do you want from me, Harry? You took off."

"I'm sorry. I can't…" I rubbed both hands through my hair and then let them rest atop my head, still leaning against the wall, absorbing its chill. "I can't stop thinking about you."

Eyes, piercing, blue like the coldest ice and deepest sea, hungry like a wolfs. His arms, lean but muscular, always crossed over his broad chest to hide the display of long, pink scars, unspoken of. His breath, deep and ragged. His crooked laugh. His trickery. His fucking smell. Warm somehow, or hot, red-hot.

I swallowed but my mouth was so dry. He stood unmoving, and then with a cat-like swiftness, he flicked his wrist in front of his face and checked the time.

"Let's go then." He said, unsmiling.

—

In dusk's light, through the fall of snow, we moved spectrally, like ghosts on a lake. Always five meters astride, hoods drawn, heads downturned. Through alleys stood a tall building, wooden and forgettable - inside three flats. We entered, kicking the snow from our shoes, and ascended.

"Incendio." His voice low and quick, and with a flick of his wrist around the tiny, one room flat, the puddled wax of surviving candles alit in soft dancing flame. The room was as we had left it, only this morning, yet to be scoured and cleaned by the mysterious entity that he had hired to care for this place. I used my wand to flick closed the door, then tossed it on a crooked end table. Locked. He turned to me and in a fluid motion extended his hand, wand raised.

"Petrificus!"

A blinding flash of blue light tangled around my body, holding me still, and I gasped. Eyes wide. The air hung stale in my lungs.

He slipped his wand into his pocket. Unclasped the latch on his heavy, wool cloak and folded it tenderly, placing it atop the dresser. He wore a black blazer over his straight trousers. White shirt, pressed. Slytherin tie held in place with a silver clip. He loosened it from around his neck. His expression hard, complexion creamy pale and only lightly kissed by the cold. I could feel the slow rise and fall of my chest. My eyes fixed on him.

He unclasped my cloak, letting it fall. Grabbed my sweater in his clenched fist as if he would rip it from me - one hand about my collar and the other with nails piercing the tender flesh of my wrist. Then he smiled, that half smile that looked so sinister and so playful. He released my shirt, long fingers running over exposed collarbones, snaking around the nape of my neck, thumb pressed gently against the knick below my ear. With one free hand he unbuckled my belt. His fingers worked at the button fly with the precision of a man practiced in his art. His head dipped into the crook of my neck, his breath beginning to quicken, and his parted lips hovered just beyond the reach of my wanting flesh. A moan. So silent. Honest, and just for him.

He took two steps into the room, turning away. His tie slipped over his head, neck craned back. Then his shirt. As he raised his arms over his head his back rippled with lean muscle, lashes of pink against a sea of foggy white flesh. He removed his belt. One shoe at a time. When he turned, the flicker of lantern light on the streets below sharpened his profile. Exquisite, delicate in it's extreme angles, but masculine in form. Lips not full, but pale pink and parted with each subtle rise and fall of his chest. Glistening, his eyes, deep set. Filled with thirst, with fear, with hatred and love.

"Rennervate." The spell floated through the unmoving air. I gasped at that word, filling my lungs.

Backlit by a soft yellow light, shadow dancing across the scratched, wooden floor, arms fallen to his sides with wand in hand, barely hanging on as it dipped towards the floor, prowling like a wolf, stood something beyond what I had the capacity to describe. Beautiful but fierce. Almost ethereal in his form. In my bunched sweater and half-off slacks, floppy uncut hair to hide the ever burning scar above my eyes, I felt like a child set prey to a dog. Always afraid. Always alert. The lantern flickered off and only we were left alone in this room filled with the tense quiver of light. Go on, Harry. Bite back.

I tasted his soft flesh. Salt, pine, sweet. The piquant smell of arousal filled my head. The heat of his flesh against mine. I grabbed his wrists in one hand, pressed them above his head.

"Submissive?" I asked, "Today?"

"No." He growled. Twisting his legs around my own and masterfully breaking free of my grasp, he lifted my body in the air. My cheek pressed against the soft of the sheets. Everything smelled of him.

"Hungry."

He mounted me, voice deep and filled with lust. He grabbed a fistful of my hair. When I caught his eyes they were twinkling. He curled the left side of his mouth into a smile.

"I'm the big bad wolf, Harry."

A white flurry of stars passed before my eyes and I groaned a deep, guttural moan.

"I'm going to eat you up."

—

The warmth of the water soothed me as I stepped tenderly into the swirling heat of the claw-foot tub. Green swirls of liquid eucalyptus formed the shapes of the long, fragrant leaves but disappeared as my lowering body disrupted the water. One arm hung in the warmth between my legs, knees pulled up. The other outside of the porcelain boat, fingertips grazing against his soap, slimy wet and cast aside. He sat as I did, knees peaking out of the steaming bath, arms rested on the lip of the tub, but not watching me. His head was tilted back, showcasing his strong neck, broad shoulders, and his eyes remained closed, lost in a far-away dream. After some time he extended a leg, grazing the inside of my thigh.

"A light?" He asked.

Between two fingers dangled an unlit cigarette, swollen with the moist air. I extended a candle, wands cast away in the dark corners of the room, and moved towards his chest. His cigarette now sticky to the creased, pink curve of his mouth. He inhaled, smoke hovering slightly in his open mouth, before drifting up to be captured by the flare of his nostrils. He once again tilted his head away, closed his eyes.

"I don't want to go back." I spoke, cooingly. The words were honest and carelessly spoken. I was surprised to discover that they were mine.

"Where?" He asked, distantly. I slid back, pressing my body against the cool porcelain, replacing the candle.

"I don't want to leave here." I unanswered. "I was looking for you this morning, in the Great Hall, waiting to hear you, smell you. I was wandering right for you. Every time I closed my eyes…" I felt my voice tremble delicately, almost unnoticeable, with fear.

He leaned forward, singeing the half-smoked cigarette in the bathwater. He ran his hand through ashen hair, clean trimmed on the sides, and dipped the hand into the water. Fingers grazed my knee with care.

"I'm not afraid of them, Harry. Of Hogwarts. I have made it quite clear that I am not the kind of man to be stepped over, do you understand?" His voice was cool and grave, unfaltering in his liquid speech. I nodded. "While I would rather not have my sexuality discussed on the cover of the Quibbler, worrying about it would be wasteful."

His hand now held my thigh, delicate fingers working as arteries for his softly beating heart and passionate speech. I felt the flutter of my own racing heart, and became suddenly aware of the heat of the tub and the cold wind fighting to break through the wooden frame of the window. His eyes, always so icy deep and pure, gleamed with a soft radiance.

"I would hope that you would feel the same."

To think of fear and shame as a wasteful emotion was at this point beyond me, always so confident in my actions, I could not seem to find confidence in what I felt with him. I knew it to be true, perhaps pure, unfaltering. Unmistakeable lust. Passion. Care. Hunger. But plightful. Confusing. Foreign.

"Harry, I am afraid of what you see when you close your eyes. Whatever you can see, He can see. My father can see. And if He can see these scars, then they will know that what you imagine is more than just a fantasy."

I opened my eyes. Realizing for the first time that they had been soothed closed. A warm, pruned palm pressed against my cheek and I turned towards it, lips pressed against soft flesh. He moved towards me, water spilling rhythmically over the curled lip of the bath, and tilted his square jaw. Venom flowing through me. One delicate hand on my face, one wrapped in the curls on my chest. His kiss. A sweet, warm bite. My lashes fluttered closed, and I let myself remember.

His body, white shirt still firmly clasped to strong chest, hovering above my own as he fastened one of my arms above my head. Bodies pressed into the soft feather of his bed. My thumb gently stoking his bottom lip, stoic in the heat of the moment, as my own quivered in fear and delight. Never had I been so hungry. So eager to taste. So wanting of flesh. His strong back arched, free hand curled underneath me, and we met in a solemn promise. Bitten for the first time in the icy silence of the Slytherin dormitories on Christmas.

I inhaled his sweet breath. Drank in his image. Reached out to stroke the curve of his back.

"If you want to see me, Harry," He continued, eyes now a soft blue-grey and filled with twinkling light.

He stood from the water, droplets gleaming off of his lithe but perfectly male form, curving down the inside of muscular thighs. He cupped my chin in his hand, drawing it nearer.

"Then I want you to see Me." He annunciated the last word in indignant pride, but his curling smile could not hide his masculine pleasure. Fuck.

"You're bad!" I growled. And he laughed, deeply, and more honestly than I had heard in the year spent slithering in and out of his warm embrace.

"You know it, kid."

—

I awoke in the deep blackness of night. The smell of smoke filled the air. I leaned upwards on my forearms, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness, expecting to see his gleaming male figure, smoking in the light of the moon, as I had so many nights before. But there was nothing. Instead his lean, pale form lay beside me, curled in slumber. I inhaled. Coughed. The smoke was thick.

"Draco."

He awoke sleepily, but became quickly alert. He tossed the sheets from us and arose, nearly disappearing in the foggy room. He moved to the window, prying it open, and through the rolling blackness I could see is profile, outlined by a sinister green glow.

He grabbed his trousers, tugging them on. Tossing mine at the bed.

"Leave."

The wooden floor was hot. The room moved into check with my head, cloudy.

"Get out now. Don't be seen."

I opened my mouth to ask what was going on. My heart racing. His body tense and fierce but instilled with fear. But all I could manage was a gasp of smoke filled air.

I picked my wand off the table. He moved like a banshee in the fog. I opened the small closet door and pulled form it my heavy, iridescent cloak. Through the smoke and the thinning air, the heat of the room, he appeared before me. His face was pale, honest in fright. But his eyes, now a deep grey, did not waver. His mouth straight. His breathing becoming ragged, matching mine. In an instant he reached out and embraced me, our bare chests pressed together, my nose buried in the soft hair behind his ear. I felt his kiss press down on my forehead.

"Don't forget what I said."

He reached out and grabbed hold of the doorknob. It singed his flesh deeply, and I could hear him suppress his scream. Then with his free hand, he pressed me quickly and sternly, into the flame licked hallway. And I disappeared in my father's cloak.


	2. Flame

The night was alit with the lick of red-hot flame. Blazing and crackling. The wind swirled the kickoff of snow around my form, silent, paralyzed with horror, hatred, fear. Unseen in the cold streets. I turned my head from the crack of wood, the crumble of beams, the slowed motion of feet running with wands raised towards the tall wooden building, crooked and forgettable, now engulfed in the fury of flame. I searched the cloud-filled sky for the moon but it had hidden its soft face in disgrace. Only the blazed green of a screaming skull looked down from the sky, snake entwined in its open jaw. Vicious, filled with hate and revenge. It chilled my heart.

I awoke in a cold sweat. Hands moving outward to grasp at the soft feather of the pillow that lay aside me. Empty. I sat erect. Closed tired eyes haunted by memories and countless nights of unrest.

Pine. Tobacco. Musky sweet and salty as my lips grazed over his solid cut of hipbone to press a hungry bite into the lean muscle of tensing abdominal V. Chest tightening, my lips parting to unleash a controlled purr.

My lashes fluttered, eyes open then closed again. My shoulders hunched as my blanket tenderly slipped down over broad chest and into the rigid curve of my lap.

Two steely eyes, half closed in the first moments of sweet slumber. Long, strong nose. Pale pink lips, unsmiling. Square jaw turned, cut from a slab of flawless marble. The smell of smoke, thick, filled my head.

"Grab your invisibility cloak, Harry!" His voice far away, warbled and foreign.

Fleeing. Legs unable to carry me. Flame and darkness. Without him.

"Harry?" The voice startled me awake.

Ron hung over the side of his bed. Long, tree trunk legs planted firmly into the wooden floor of the Gryffindor dormitory with roots of naked toes. His hands, mitts of hardened fingers brought on by his years of labor, hung together between his knees in gently writhing concern. I furrowed black eyebrows, bright lapis eyes darkened by one hundred sleepless nights.

The mattress sunk into the curve of his weight as Ron appeared aside me. I could hear him swallow a dry mouth, run tongue over his lips in concentration and preparation for one of a million practiced lines.

"We'll kill him, Harry." His grave voice did not falter in his stoic delivery. "We're stronger."

—

From the nearby green of a young dogwood, a male robin puffed the bright orange of his breast to the warming sun of March at Hogwarts. The air filled with his song, light and confident, and the sticky sweet scents of fresh blossoms, whose pistils blushed in the crisp air, delicately pink.

The finely laid stone of the fountain's edge crept through my trousers with cool fingers, wrapping my legs in the final reminisces of winter's touch. I didn't mind. I stared into the still water, watching a reflection of myself that seemed somehow foreign in its visage.

Dimpled chin and square jaw strengthened by time and by the dark brush of unshaven hair. Raised cheekbones somehow not gaunt but stone cut. Black hair clipped, parted and brushed back from my eyes. Above all, lips. Mouth forming a straight, unmovable line, distant and lost.

A white, notched dogwood flower, caught on an unstable breeze, broke the silence of the fountain, and my image faded into the surreal swirl of disrupted water. I turned instead to face the looming stone comfort of the school. Pressed now-calloused palms together and rested my chin against the intertwined tips of my fingers.

From the peaked arch of the grey-rock atrium, the long, floating figure of a man stood watching. His robes, archaic in form and color, seemed to drift untouched by the damp earth as he moved with grace despite his long years. I lifted my head in greeting.

"Professor." My voice an unfamiliar gravel.

"Please, Harry." The old wizard extended a wrinkled hand, sturdy in conviction, but with bulbous knuckles betraying him with the dull pain of arthritis. "Stand. And call me Albus, for goodness sakes."

As I stood he took a seat, reaching into the fountain and producing the tender white flower in cupped hands. It rested atop droplets of water, floating in the curve of his palm. He spoke without the raising his transfixed eyes.

"The rain to the wind said, 'You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed, that the flowers actually knelt…"

"And lay lodged — though not dead…" I continued, gently and with repeat as I had learned it as a child. "Frost. I know it."

"I think that you should come with me, Harry." As he spoke he returned the small bloom to the cold water. It floated without sinking, though wet. As we walked, I turned back towards the garden, and it was as if the tender limbs of the dogwood were leaning over to listen to the echo of our steps against the stone.

—

We walked abreast through the bustle of the hallway, midday and between classes. Students moved in waves, roaring and swelling, and then parting as Albus Dumbledore's biblical presence swept past. I kept my head down. Rarely did I raise glistening eyes to meet those of my peers even before. Now, I took a deep breath, jammed my hands into the pockets of my black slacks, and rued that my crimson-and-golden, striped tie was not pinned to my shirt in the way that he always had.

Albus waved a knowing hand over a patch of stone wall, revealing the shining, white outline of a room that I had visited alone on more than one occasion. As well entered, my senses were flooded with cold, stale air and the mildewy smell of years of water dripping onto the cobbled floor.

In the center of the room stood a large mirror, its wooden frame gilded with striking silver vines and buds. A large, but delicate hand found my shoulder. When I turned to greet Dumbledore's eyes they were a watery blue, almost milky with age, but somehow wholly reassuring. I had done this before, after all. Taking a deep breath and shaking the cold sweat from my hands, I approached the patinated mirror.

My senses pricked but my body soothed. For the first time in months I felt at home. He stood with his fingers in the pockets of navy slacks, delicate, pale thumbs hooked over the edge of his pants. His V-neck shirt revealed only the slightest glimmer of white-blonde curls, and the buttondown shirt atop it was rolled to showcase the lean curve of his muscular arms. His ashen hair, freshly trimmed on the sides and matched by the breadth of stubble that hugged his square jaw, was high-and-tight and brushed away from his wide forehead. His glittering eyes. Solid blue gemstones, dusted with silver ore. They locked with my own. Then, trailing down my chest, rested for an intent moment at my waist before flickering back to melt into my own gaze.

My chest fluttered and I swallowed a dry mouth, wiping my palms on the front of my pants. Those eyes, so full of life. And his lips, parted, almost rosy pink, now gently chewed by perfect, white cage-bars of teeth.

He rolled back slightly on his heels. His nostrils flared for a moment in an exhalation of laughter, as the left side of his mouth flickered into that sinister smile. He moved his hand from his pocket. His eyes slitted to a fraction of their luster, suddenly needy, and he cupped a strong palm around the crotch of his trousers. Tugged twice. Fuck. I flushed. My ears burning red.

"That will be quite enough, Master Malfoy, I'm sure." The rigid but harmonic voice filled my ears, suddenly reminded of the presence in the room, but also instantly overcome by the message. I could see the blurry image unfold before I recognized the swelling of my eyes. A big full smile, dripping with hot venom, blurred by my own tears.

His lean, long fingers pressed through the glass as if they were emerging from beyond the gossamer surface of a body of water. Rippling and new born. I could hear the clip of my shoes against stone, unaware of their movement. In a moment engulfed in warmth. In pine. In tobacco. In ancient secrets.

"You smell the same."

—

"I thought you were dead." My voice was unpredictable with a flurry of emotions. The sentence rolled from my tongue in anger and sadness, halfway between a question and a threat.

"Come on, kid." He tilted his head and half smiled, running a hand through my hair. "It's going to take a lot more than that to shake me off. Give me some credit."

I flinched and pulled my face away from his grasp. His tone softened. He had emerged childishly excited, picking and plucking at me like a schoolboy, and I felt betrayed by the graveness of the situation and the three unendurable months suffering his loss.

He found my face again. An outstretched palm cupped my jaw, thumb running through wire hair. He exhaled the last deep swirl of smoke from his lungs with the tilt of his head, revealing as always, the perfect curve of neck and shoulder, shaking me to the core. He pressed his cigarette out on the hard wood of the table, unwilling to care as it blacked the oak with a permanent pock.

"You look incredible." He said with a gentle honesty. His glistening eyes scanned my face. "All grown up."

"Can you imagine, for a moment, how difficult this was for me?" I hissed.

"I can." He moved both his hands and his eyes to the table, rolling the extinguished cigarette between his fingers so that strands of un-blackened tobacco broke free. The curve of his hands betrayed his right palm, livery with the burn. "I have, of course, lived it." The trickery in his voice faded and was replaced by a stern honesty.

Dumbledore had vanished, not unexpectedly, when I had finally felt that I had enough control with unclasp myself from Draco Malfoy's sturdy, male form. The room contained an old wooden table and chairs, and two cups of steaming ceylon tea. Though the environment had switched to mimic the inside of an old tea-shop, it was not my ideal. We sat, and he told me his story in detail. The fire. The dark mark. The months spent quiet and safe with Remus and Tonks. I stewed in a flurry of relief and betrayal while he spoke cooly and chronically to completion.

I removed my cupped hands from the warm porcelain, now devoid of the sweet liquid, and proceeded to exhibit physical symptoms of an array of emotions. I pursed my lips. Slouched in my seat. Rubbed my eyes with the balls of both hands. Sat upright in my seat. And finally, crossed my legs in a pointless attempt to disguise my arousal.

He leaned back in his chair. His face, devoid of the emotions that I could not seem to control, surveyed the room. With each turn it revealed a new and exquisite angle. The bridge of his nose. The rise of his cheeks. The soft beat of his heart in his throat as it fueled his hungry head with concealed daydreams. I fought back the urge to slap that fucking beautiful face.

"This room is a bit of a prude, don't you think?" He asked, unsmiling, but with eyes twinkling.

"Only what's required. How would you define 'required'?" I asked, wanting to be angry but caught up in the game, as always. "Essential?"

"In keeping with ones wishes. I think." He smirked.

"Whose wishes? Not mine."

"Not yours?" He chuckled, and in an instant he had moved over the small table, displaced the china, and snaked strong arms around me, locking my tilted jaw in the hot bite of his virulent kiss. I gasped in his breath. Sweet with tea and desire.

"I told you that if you wanted to see me you should have seen Me, Harry. Look what happened."

The words licked at my ear, his voice slithering.

"Don't be cruel." I tutted, but honestly.

"You've never seen me be cruel."

My cheek pressed up against the cold stone wall by force of his weight, strong and unmoving. He traced the outline of my shoulder with parted lips, his breath growing heavy, and bit down into the soft flesh of my neck. I emitted a low growl.

My eyes strained closed in the darkness. Mind flooded with the memory of his curving spine, glistening chest - slashes of pink scars, solid abs - rhythmically pulsing. A flurry of white stars invaded the memory.

"No. No." I breathed, ragged and difficult. Turning and letting the blades of my shoulder bruise between the solid skeleton of the school and the mass of pearly muscle. "You said I should see You." I panted, annunciating the final word, jolted by the force of his exploit.

His mouth hovered just beyond my ear. He pressed deeply against me. The sharp scent of lust a torrent behind my eyes. He inhaled. Quick. Hungry. Pressed wetting lips against the curve of my cheek and whispered,

"Too true."

—

He sat slouched atop one of the wooden chairs. Legs outstretched, bare, with toes curling. He reached blindly for his pack of cigarettes, and finding it to be devoid of his addictive habit, he tossed it aside. His body was lean and purely masculine. The only light that remained shone in through a spectral window, cast by a full moon, and coated his naked form in a soft, radiant glow. I watched him from the cold stone floor, raised upright on my forearms. And shivered.

Every ray found a way to cast a different light on him. Mystery. Trickery. Sin. Malevolence. But always beautiful. Always bright and cloaked in darkness. Passionate. Brilliant. Familiar. I tipped my head and sighed softly. Blew a stray strand of hair that had crept down over my eyes back into place.

"I can't stay." He said. His voice was cold and smooth. He had been watching me, though I did not notice until now, lost in some far-away realization. I furrowed my brows.

He stood, and his figure faded away into the darkness. It was a familiar sight, and compelled me to rise, heart racing, to move in the darkness towards him. His back was turned to me. Long, curved, toned. The slope of his shoulders, the soft curve of his ass, the strength in his legs. I reach out and stroked either side of his figure as he stared into the solid glass of his mirror. His words resonated in my ears.

"You can't go." I cooed. Voice pleading.

He faced me, long fingers wrapping around my wrist. He moved my hand to his mouth, brushed fingers against his pale lips, and kissed it tenderly.

"I can't stay."

—

I curled on the cold stone at the foot of the mirror. Redressed. My head felt heavy. It reached towards the floor magnetically.

The ripple of the glass as his figure stepped through. Still naked. Beautiful. More than beautiful. Male. Cut like stone, colored like marble. A figure that millennia of artisans had strived to materialize. In the darkness, his eyes glowed. Nearly feline, but bright blue. Rays of light cutting through the mist.

Suddenly, I leaned upright. His words still danced solemnly through the caverns of my throbbing skull. I mouthed them to myself, alone in the night. Then I reached out, touching the liquid surface of his portal. The rough tips of my fingers slid through, cool and dry, to another realm. I retracted and wiped them on my trousers. Took a deep breath, and plunged.


	3. Ice

I awoke to the sound of the door creaking. Opening only one eye, I first examined the figure aside me. Ashen hair lay scattered and stray across the pillow. A long, straight nose ending in the rosy pink curve of his mouth. His chest rose and fell slowly. I smiled. As it should be. I then opened the other eye to examine the figure whose lithe form seemed pressed by the vastness of the doorframe.

He stood with his hands in his pockets. His strong nose downturned, culminating in a pair of thick, full lips. His dark hair amassing in a styled but unruly coif. He coughed.

I leaned forward, blushing as the sheets slid down to reveal a bare chest. As I did this, Draco awoke, sitting upright and rubbing his messy hair in his hands. He eyed the figure in the doorway, but chose instead to stretch his long arms over his head and yawn in a way that was particularly cat-like. The male in the doorway shuffled slightly.

"Good morning, Theo." His voice crackled in the first moments of waking, but was the same smooth song I had grown so accustomed to. I pulled the sheets to cover myself.

"No point in standing there, come in." He continued, ushering the stranger - Theo - into the room and consequentially to the edge of the bed.

He was familiar to me, though I couldn't quick knick it. A student. A friend? He glanced between Draco and myself.

"Mmm." Draco muttered and yawned once more in a wide-mouthed gesture. He waved a delicate hand between us. "Harry, this is Theo. Theo Nott. Slytherin. Was, like me, I suppose."

I nodded, confused, and reached out a hand to shake his. I suppose he did look familiar. Quidditch player, maybe. He'd aged. The angles of his face were well-cut, almost feminine. His dark, chocolatey eyes were wide but set deep into his pale skin, and seemed alarmed. He was actually handsome. Incredibly so. I shifted slightly to stop looking into those eyes.

"I think this is a bad time." Theo's voice was deep and rumbly, despite his effeminate form. I looked between he and Draco, who nodded.

"Yeah, okay." Draco replied surprisingly honestly, his eyes glittering as they met the chocolate eyes of the delicate Slytherin.

Theo stood and rubbed the back of his neck with a large palm. As he did, the hem of his shirt lifted slightly above his belt and I caught a glimpse of a pink scar against his stomach. He hovered for a moment, as if unsure of his next move, and then repeated Draco's last words before leaving quickly. As he turned to close the door, he glanced once more at Draco, avoiding me entirely.

I looked into Draco's sleepy eyes. His face was unsmiling but glowing slightly. I was confused. How many wayward Slytherins were Remus and Tonks keeping locked away in this strange, London brownstone? I opened my mouth to speak but snapped it shut again as he slid from under the covers and stood next to the bed. Naked and pale and silhouetted by the soft light of morning. I devoured every curve of his exquisite form. Burned it into my mind. As he moved, I watched him. Let my brain drift off as my eyes hungrily analyzed.

In my mind, I watched sweat form and glisten within the tight blonde curls of his strong chest. Veins throbbing in his arms as he leaned over top of me. Abs pulled taunt, scarred like flecks of light cutting through window blinds, deliciously sweet.

I rubbed my forehead and adjusted myself. He had found a pair of undergarments and donned them while I was elsewhere, but he had clearly been observing my fantasy. His arms were crossed across his chest and his thin mouth was lined with the curl of a smirk.

"Don't you ever get tired of watching me?" He asked, self righteously and with the thick slathering of venom that I had decided was, most likely, inherent.

"No." I responded, breathlessly. The voice in my head sounded far more in control that the one attached to my mouth. "How many people are staying here?"

"Oh, just me." He responded, indifferently.

"It's…" I leaned over to the end table and handled his watch. The beautiful crystalline face ticked wildly as 18 different hands shown times from here to New Zealand. I studied it for a moment before concluding that I had an approximate time of 8:15 am, which I declared.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and let his hand rest on the sheet against my leg. He was a smart man, and though his nonchalant attitude would have suggested otherwise, he knew the answer that I was looking for. He opened his mouth, thought about his words, and then deciding that they were sufficient, he spoke.

"Ah, we're fucking."

—

I politely declined breakfast as Tonks swept through the kitchen with a respectful speed. Instead, I sipped at a cup of strong, black coffee and furrowed my eyebrows in anger and self-pity. He dusted the table of crumbs and placed them onto his plate in a well-brought-up manner that only made me furious.

"Look, Harry. I've known Theo for a very long time. Since we were children, in fact. Our fathers are very close, and much like me, he would not have faired very well in the dark arts." He began speaking with his eyes fixed on the gentle motion of the sweeping and setting of toast particles but ended with two steely blue orbs locked solidly with my own.

"He's handsome." I concluded, offhandedly.

"Oh, yes." His mouth bean to twitch into a small smile but he suppressed it.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I felt my temper slipping. "A year? Back and forth between that crummy flat. Always waiting for you. Always watching after you. That fucking night. In your room. You were so, God, so nice to me." I hissed the word 'nice' in a disgusted snarl and continued my rant.

"All those years spent being horrible! Awful! I've never - but I wanted - so badly. And you kissed me so - and Christmas - and I had fun." I trailed off for a moment, lost in the memory. "And then you died! I grieved. I told my friends. I became someone else! And the whole time you were here, with him. Just fucking. Yeah, casual thing." I slid my chair backwards, and it scratched so loudly against the hard wood that a door somewhere within the depths of the house clicked closed as to not hear me continue.

"Harry, you need to calm down."

"No! No I don't!" I huffed. I was angry. So angry. Tears stained my cheeks and I held up my hand, exiting the room to return to his soft bed, sheets still crumpled in its center.

When he appeared in the doorway, I was frantically attempting to tie the laces of my shoes. I didn't look up at him, but I didn't have to. He swiftly grabbed hold of my chin, not too gently, and made me fix eyes with him. They were deep and flickered with anger. I dropped my feet and slowed my breathing.

"You need to act like an adult." His words were calm but burning with the flame of anger.

"You can not for a second believe that you are the first man that I've been with, Harry. I am respectful of your naivety, and I would go so far as to say that I enjoy it. But, your inexperience is not an excuse for your behavior. I have been, if nothing else, understanding."

"I do not enjoy being here. I certainly did not enjoy having to keep the fact that I was safe hidden from you, but I knew that I needed to do what I was told, for both you and myself. I miss that flat. I dream about Christmas. But, that fire was meant to kill me. And you. It was something set in motion by what we did. Orchestrated by my sniveling, rat-faced father."

He took a deep breath, his voice softening from the spitting of his last passionate sentence to a gentle but forceful tone.

"Harry. I missed you. You are exquisite. Handsome and dark and innocent and completely foreign to me. Easily the best that - but, you need to start acting like an adult. If you don't believe that you were well on your way to becoming a man when you followed me into my room that night, you must believe that you have become one now. You are not The Boy Who Lived anymore, Harry Potter, you are someone else. Act the part."

And with a final hiss of his diatribe, he snapped my jaw away from his eyes, out of his long fingers, and sat aside me, still swelling with an anger so violent and staggering that I chewed at my bottom lip in near repent.

"I am not your boyfriend, Harry Potter." He concluded, cooly.

"I'm sorry." I responded, foolishly.

"Don't be sorry." He snapped. Then sighed. "Just don't act like that."

"Like a child."

"Like a child. You are definitely not a child."

There was a long period of silence where we let our tempers cool. I spent the time kicking off my shoes again. Lip still chewed coyly, having been reprimanded in a way that in my life, only he had done.

"You really think that I'm…well…best?" My lips curled into a smile that I couldn't control.

He raised his eyebrows and puffed out a single, suppressed laugh. Ran his long hands through ashen hair and let his lean, muscular chest rise in a deep breath.

"Get. Back." He pointed towards the mess of pillows at the head of the bed. "Go. And take off those stupid pants."

"They're your pants." I tutted. They were his pants. I stole them.

"I thought they looked familiar. Just take them off. Leave you shirt on." His voice was trailing but the last sentence he commanded.

As usual, I did as I was told. Fumbling and eager and angry and sweaty and sad. These were emotions that I had grown so accustomed to within the last year that they served a reminder as to the kind of person I was. I noted this, and leaned against the soft feather of the pillows, propped up against the headboard in a seated position.

I had never seen him move this way. Always commanding to the point of using magic against me, now he slithered from the foot of the bed towards me in a way that was more feline than his usual serpentine. His eyes, shallow and hungry, twinkled with a pleasurable secret. As he approached me, arm curled around the nape of my neck, fingers twirling in the gentle wisps of my hair, a smile cracked over his carefully composed mouth in a way that reminded me of Ginny's smile. I flushed at the thought. But as soon as the thought had manifested, it was ripped from my mind. In an instant that coy smile was replaced with hunger. His soft fingers tugged at my hair hard enough to wrench back my head, my soft cry of pain silenced by the red-hot lick of his venomous kiss and the powerful control of my arousal.

My breathing doubled. Eyelashes fluttered closed as his grip on my head loosened, occupied elsewhere. I was on the hair-trigger of anger and relief, and emitting a soft groan, I suddenly became aware of the chill of sweat that appeared quickly and now clung to my trembling body. I curled into his chest like a crumpled leaf and sighed, rubbing damp hair into the curve of his shoulder, scar warm but distant in my conscious.

—

I couldn't sleep. Alone again, in my bed. The room was filled with the soft purr of sleeping Gryffindors, hurried to bed with the thoughts that tomorrow would begin another week of study and examinations. My eyes, open, stared into the curving archways of the gothic ceiling, attempting and failing to distract a mind that worked, fervently, to imagine the ethereal image of that man entangled in the limbs of the strange brunette.

The ripple of muscles in his back. Their backs. Both scared? Both lean and pale and fighting against the friction of flesh and desire. A soft moan in that rumbling, foreign voice. Pale fingers, white with force, gripped onto the cotton sheets as if he were going to be ripped from them and flung away. The animalistic way he growled.

I emitted a soft coo, occupied by my daydream, when I heard the creak of bedsprings and someone raising in the dark.

"Harry?" The voice was hushed, breathy, and thickly painted with an Irish accent. I felt myself flush deeply and feigned slumber, but it was too late. The small form of Seamus Finnegan found the edge of my bed. He rested gently against my legs, which trembled with the idea that I had just been interrupted doing something wholly indecent.

"Hey. I'm…" I closed my eyes tightly and scrunched my face in an attempted to disperse the shame from my features and think of a lie to tell.

"I over'eard you and Ron talking." His voice did not hide the knowledge that what he was saying was true, it was almost boastful in its quiet delivery.

His deep brown eyes twinkled in the night. Even before my own had adjusted to the darkness, I could see the stars in them, cast by the moon peeking in. I must have looked as frightened as I felt because he continued.

"Don't worry, I won't tell."

His voice was now soft, almost singsong in his delivery and strangely tinged by his accent. It took me a moment to realize what it was that he wanted. When I did, I burned. His rough hand rested on my thigh, protected only by the thin sheet and several inches. His features were soft. Head round, and cropped by short brown hair. Eyes blue, but slitted, and nose broad and flat. He was not particularly handsome or beautiful, but not bad. And he was in my bed, fearlessly, in a room of our peers. I suddenly became as excited by the prospect as I was frightened by the fact.

As if reading my thoughts, he leaned over and placed a soft kiss on my lips. It was different, sweet and gentle. He smelled light, almost fruity, and his skin was soft and smooth, not broken by scar or defined by muscle. He was gentle and almost boyish, and it filled me with something that I had only felt once with Him - the desire to bite back.

—

With one hand cupped over his mouth, I silenced him. The only sounds in the room the deafening echo of my own heartbeats as they racked my brain behind my ears. Each breath that escaped my parted lips was a quiet and broken pant. The muscles in my free arm tightened from the support of my body over his, while the strain on my abdomen rolled and buckled. The bells in my ears rang, blocking out the sound of my stifled whimper. Seamus staggered to the bed, soft and entangled in cotton sheets.

I kneeled above him, back still slightly arched, chest dampened by sweat, muscles solid with tension. I rolled my neck and shook loose the cramp in my arm. For a passing moment, I felt like Him. Tall, masculine, and looming with a powerful male presence and that dark, commanding gaze. I surveyed the form on the bed, gentle and curled like an animal, but the darkness in me is always overtaken by the light. I lowered myself aside him and extended an arm around his shoulders. After several minutes of quiet breathing, he leaned upwards on his arm and overlooking my prone form, he spoke.

"There's a fantasy to check off my list!" His voice was quiet still, in the room of slumbering heads, but giddy.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh come on, Harry. You gotta know every queer in the school wants a piece of you. The famous Harry Potter. And when I 'eard you tell Ron that you were getting dicked I knew I 'ad to make a move. Can't blame me can you?"

I opened my mouth but was only met with silence. I was speechless. My head was filled with blood and I felt my sweat run cold. Nervous? Fuck. Angry.

"Shame about Malfoy. God, what a treat. 'Eaven got a fuckin' angel that day. I can see why he gave you a season pass, though. Lucky dog. You are something else." He pronounced the last sentence with dedicated pause. His eyes flashed and he leaned forward to kiss me.

I turned my cheek and furrowed heavy black eyebrows. Suddenly aware of my nudity, the slow breathing of the bodies in the room, and the warm hands of spring clawing at the windows. Before Seamus could continue his blasphemous dialog, I regained my voice.

"Get out of my bed, Seamus." My voice was cold, grave, and honest. My eyes felt almost glazed by his words. From start to finish they burned the inside of my brain.

"Uh, duly noted."

I waited until I felt the mattress give. The padding of bare feet reaching their destination of a warm four-poster. Then, I waited longer. My naivety. My fear of these people knowing. Knowing what? That it was Draco Malfoy? That it was any man. Sex, or that it was something more than sex that I was looking for? My drifting mind snapped back to reality. I leaned forward and pulled on the crinkled, flannel sleep pants that had become discarded in a ball at the foot of the bed.

Slowly, I padded down the hallway. Feet and chest bare. Mind focused. Filch's cat pawed from around a looming, stone corner. Her movements were silent but her eyes shone as two red orbs in the dark night. When she saw me, she sat, raising a paw to her face to lick it softly, then meowed. I hissed back. Dedicated. I reached the wide expanse of empty wall and waved my wand over it. As it softly began to glow, I entered. In the center of the room, again dusty and silent, the large mirror stood covered with a cloth sheet. I ripped it to the floor. Beyond the point of holding my breath, I submerged.

—

I allowed my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. The crescent moon winked at me from the window, cracked open. I scanned the bed. One body. Elegant and enveloped in dream. I leaned forward and rested one knee on the mattress. Gingerly pressing my palm against him, I felt the warmth of his skin against my own. Slowly at first, but then with force, I shook him.

"Draco, wake up."

"Mmm?" His voice was gentle, almost cooing. I had remembered him sounding irritated when woken.

"Harry?" He rubbed his eyes and strained them to check the time on the ticking watch aside his bed. Deciding it was futile, he instead groped for his pack of cigarettes. Tenderly, he placed one between his lips and stretched forward to sit upright.

I took a deep breath. Heart racing. Pupils dilated.

"Draco Malfoy. I love you."


	4. Light

Hermonie broke through the crystalline layer of water, inhaling a deep breath of warm and precious air. Her hair, mousy brown and knotted into a long plait that hung down to her mid-back, clung to her forehead and shoulders in wispy, wet strands. As she treaded water, the sun glinted off of her softly angled face, and for a moment she looked exquisite. Soft and womanly. Ebbing on the lake like a petal.

Suddenly, she submerged, pulled into the crisp water with a small cry, and reemerged in the strong, freckled arms of Ron Weasley, who held her face - now flustered with the playful traces of anger - close to his own.

I had rolled up my trousers and dipped my feet into the cool, morning water. I was distracted by the scene unfolding as mosquitos took to feeding on my exposed ankles. Their small, black forms danced and zipped across the water's surface. A microcosm foreign to me. I only turned, raising one leg from the water to tuck it under myself, when the heavy thud of boot fall swept over the dock. From under an unkempt mass of loose, black curls, Hagrid's soft, small eyes glowed with pride.

"Harry!" He greeted me with open arms even though I was sitting and showed no sign of moving. I flashed him a perfectly straight, white smile.

—

"Paris?" He asked, his giant voice booming over the rolling hills of Hogwarts' grounds. His disbelief and hurt were apparent.

"Paris?" He asked again, more quietly, but continued before I could answer. "Ron's got a nice job working at the ministry. Paris?" He emitted a loud 'humphing' noise at the end of his sentence, and filled his mouth with a hunk of bread and cheese, chewing slowly and looking off into the lake.

"It's personal." I cooed. "Not like that. It's not professional."

"Fleur Delecour?"

"Hmm?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows. His response was in the form of a wink and a nudge, comically pressured, before he once again sank away into his thoughts. I smiled brightly to myself and stifled a laugh. Yeah sure, Fleur Delecour.

"Hermione'll be here, right?" He asked after some time.

"She will. She's working on her doctorate so that she can be a professor."

"You'd make a good professor. Dumbledore won't be around forever, you know. I'm sure he'd be happy to resign Headmaster to you, Harry."

I laughed aloud. The thought, though enticing, had never occurred to me. Hagrid grumbled his seriousness under his breath. I looked up into his lined face, weathered like the rock he tended, and smiled.

"I love Hogwarts." But I want to learn to love other things as well.

After thoroughly devouring much of the picnic that Hermione packed, Hagrid scuttled off into the brush. His intrusion was pleasant, but saddening.

—

The grounds were beautiful in the summertime. Rolling hills of perfect, soft grass echoed by ancient trees with vibrant green leaves, all reaching hopefully towards the glistening, golden orb in the sky. The school, though grey and looming, cast a shadow not in darkness but in enlightenment, and I savored it.

To think that I would so quickly abandon the pastoral landscape of England for the roaring bustle of the city cast a pang over my heart, if only for a moment, before I imagined the figure of a lean, topless wizard cracking open the paint-chipped windows and letting the warm scent of fresh rolls waft into his space.

He leaned over the windowsill. His long, toned arms, bare of fabric, rested against the cracking, wooden frame as delicate fingers trailed smoke to his pale pink, parted lips. The smoke caressing his stubbled cheek like a soft palm, before it drifted past two candescent orbs of cerulean crystal. He stubbed the cigarette out. Flicked it into the busy streets. And retreated.

The light caught his back. Long. Lean. Licked with pink scars long since healed but never forgotten. Was he lonely? Turning his attention to the buckle of his trousers as fingers moved expertly, designed for this practice. Resting the perfect curve of his ass against the soft feather of bedsheets. Or against the cold, hard wooden walls lined with flaking, pink toille. Caressing, warmly, with a sharp intake of breath and the flutter of those long, blonde eyelashes. The left corner of his mouth twitching, ever so subtly, into that wicked half-smile. Bottom lip bitten. Low growl. Guttural. Longing. Aching to be touched -

"Yo, Harry."

"Whoa." I responded, opening my eyes and flushing. Ron's voice had woken me like a slap to the face. I smiled a wide, stupid smile at my friends as Hermione hoisted herself onto the dock, wringing her hair into the lake.

"Do you miss him?" She asked, absent-mindedly, examining the swollen, wooden boards of the dock as they greedily devoured the droplets of water which fell from her form.

"Everyday." I responded in an honest but gruff voice, cracking slightly.

"Are you sure you really want to do this, Harry? I love you, and I respect you above anyone else I know." She smiled at Ron, who did not smile back. "But, Draco Malfoy…he's been very cruel to you. And his father is a known Death Eater. He works with the Dark Lord. Don't you think that Draco could have been influenced by this?"

"'Mi, I left my towel at Hagrid's hut." Ron's concerned voice from the loss of his towel floated back from behind us. Hermione turned to him, her face quite firm.

"I know you told me not to forget it." Ron smiled, sheepishly. "Please, be a dear. You already told Harry that you respect him more than me, and I'm your fiance."

Hermione clicked her teeth and moved towards him, wrapping her own towel about her waist. She kissed him on the cheek, then disappeared.

"Sorry about that, mate."

"No, no. It's okay. It's valid."

Ron sat down beside me on the dock. He cupped a big, rough hand over my shoulder and smiled a wide, silly-looking grin. I felt my eyes begin to swell. As a single tear dripped down my cheek, he didn't speak, he just tightened his grip on my broad shoulders.

"I love you, Harry."

"I love you too, Ron. You're my best friend. I should have told you ages ago, when I first knew."

"You should have. It would have saved you a hell of a lot of confusion. I don't know a lot about a lot of things, Harry. But I do know a lot about love. It's the Weasley special." There was a long moment of silence as we watched sparrows dip and swirl over the surface of the lake, like dogfighters going in for the kill.

"You leave tomorrow. Let's make tonight the best one in a while. I've gotten my job, and I promise I'll keep you in the know. Ginny too, she still cares about you. You deserve to get away. We all deserve some time away. Let's get away tonight."

"I want to dance." I sighed, wiping my face.

"Dance and get drunk." Ron concluded.

And so we danced. And got drunk. And as the deep blackness of night faded into the pink light of morning and we continued to dance and to drink and to laugh, I knew that there was no sacrifice greater than saying goodbye to those you love, truly and deeply, and because of that I needed to leave.

—

My shoulders dipped against the crisp, white sheets. The bed soft and feathery. Parted lips, gasping. Eyes fixed on the cracked moulding of the ceiling, fuzzy, fading in and out between fluttering black lashes. The air filled with his scent, pine and tobacco, hot, red-hot. Two long, delicate fingers pressed against my throat. Heart racing. His voice had a smile behind it, proud as always, and venomous.

"You missed me, Potter." Each word annunciated with perfect malice.

I couldn't respond, my chest gripped. Each precious centimeter of flesh sensitive to the gentle graze of his own, arching towards the warmth of his breath, aching for the heat of his touch.

"I missed you." He continued, "That pretty face. That innocent wanting."

He leaned forward, mouth trailing over the fine hairs of my chest, and bit down deeply into the flesh between my neck and shoulder. I let out a soft cry. His eyes burned through mine. That strong jaw now dusted with ashen hairs, never for a moment taking away from those high cheekbones, long nose, arching forehead. Cheeks now ruddy from summer sun. Eyes, so beautiful, blue flickering with silver. A smile played over my face and I reached up to run my fingers over the tender, bitten flesh.

"Bad little boy." I growled.

"Bad. But not little."

And stars flashed before my eyes, lost for a brief moment, in ecstasy.

—

I lowered my aching body into the swirling bathwater. Magical, purple petals swam through the porcelain tub, filling my thumping head with the scent of lavender. He lay with his back up against the cool wall of the bath, pulling his palm away from his mouth and dribbling flecks of ash into the crystalline water. They hovered for a moment against the surface, too light and afraid to break the barrier, before melting away. He closed his eyes and rested his head back, revealing the strong curve of his neck and jaw, lightly bitten and reddened from being shirtless in the sun. I watched the way his throat gently ebbed with each slight inhale and exhale.

France had treated Draco Malfoy well. Not only was he somehow more exquisite than ever, his usually fierce and defensive attitude had faded into something akin to relief. I remembered back to the first year that I had chased him through the school. It wasn't so long ago, but it came back to me in dreamy sequences as if a lifetime had passed between then and now. He was always so clean and cut, his hair cropped short, his trousers pressed, and his tie clipped, and never would he take off his undershirt, afraid perhaps to reveal the marks that scarred his skin.

Now, he walked openly through the streets of this Muggle city, his ashen hair still shaved on the sides but falling in unkempt curls over his glittery eyes, his denim pants cuffed around his ankles, and his linen shirt unbuttoned, revealing the honesty of his past. More than this, more than his stubbled cheeks and his bare feet and his crinkled eyes, was the way he looked at me. The way he would kiss me at la Concorde and would innocently steal an apple from the Saxe-Breteuil, and toss it into my arms before slipping away into the crowd. He was light. He was free. And after more than year of longing, confusion, and despair, he was mine.

I dipped my palms into the lavender-scented water and splashed it against my face. Droplets hung in my thickening beard, dark eyebrows, and unruly curls. The tension of the broken water grabbed his attention. Expertly, he stubbed out a cigarette into the glass ashtray next to the gothic claw of the bathtub and stretched out one of his long legs, covered in fine, blonde curls, in an attempt to shuffle me closer in the steamy water.

"A new start." He began, letting the heat of the water and the closeness of our bodies ignite the conversation. "I like it. I like it here. Two gay men in Paris."

I cringed slightly, and he felt it. He raised an eyebrow in my direction as if to question the obscenity of what he had just said. There was nothing wrong about it, of course. It was simply something that I, abashedly, had yet to admit. Unfortunately for me, he could always read right through me.

"Oh wow, Harry. You've never really said that out loud, have you?"

I flushed slightly and announced that I hadn't, trying to advert my gaze from the somewhat cynical look that played against his features.

"You moved to a foreign country with a man. You live with him. Your relationship can only be characterized as well, intimate. You're gay, the famous Harry Potter."

I swallowed a dry mouth and let the words dance around in my head for a moment before they squeaked, in a manner that was no way fitting to my form, from my mouth.

"I'm gay."

"You're gay."

I sighed and let my confidence grow.

"I'm gay."

"There." He seemed satisfied with that. "That was easy."

From the culmination of my short but passionate relationship with Ginny Weasley to the realization that whole thing may have been more of a mistake than I had been willing to admit, I had never considered the label on my sexuality. When I found myself entranced by that blonde-haired blue-eyed wizard, one night in the corridor outside of the Slytherin dormitories, I never stopped to consider the situation as anything more than romantic - albeit lust or love, in the end. It wasn't until the turning point with Seamus Finnegan that I was even forced to come to the realization that there were other men out there that had the same kind of preferences as I did. It's not like I didn't know, I'm not foolish, it's simply that I had never taken the time to consider it. It had always been about the Him in my life, that mysterious, powerful, sexual force that drove me, and never about anyone else.

Sensing my uneasiness, Draco rubbed his submerged foot against the outside of my thigh in a gesture that resembled an apology. I looked up from my daydream and scratched my head, flashing an ephemeral smile in his direction that fleeted as quickly as it appeared. I wasn't sad. Confused, maybe, or more so embarrassed.

"Hey, you've come along way from the sassy little queer kid that followed me into my bedroom to the man here with me today, willing to admit that he's gay."

I splashed him, and he raised his hands to guard his face.

"Stop, stop!" He demanded playfully. "Get over here."

With the gentle forcefulness of his nature, he reached out to grab my arm and maneuver me into his lap. Strong, tan arms wrapped around my bare chest and held me tightly against himself, my lean back pressing against the fine, hard lines of his chest. He leaned over me, nuzzling his long, straight nose against my bearded cheek, and I could feel his lips forming that crooked half-smile, entirely for himself. With a shallow but passionate breath against the side of my face, he leaned backwards against the porcelain and continued.

"I'm serious Harry, I'm not saying this for me. I know who I am. I've known who I was for a very, very long time. I'm saying this for you, because it's important."

He thought about his next words carefully, while he removed one arm from his embrace to adjust the white-blonde hair that was clinging to the nape of his neck.

"I don't believe in destiny, you know. But, I believe that if you know who you are and if you're true and honest with yourself about whom that person is, then I believe that you're going to be okay. That knowing who you are makes you strong, and it's that strength that gives you the power to stand up for yourself."

I let the words simmer for a moment.

"That was very romantic." I concluded.

"I'm a romantic guy."

I laughed a deep belly laugh and freed one of my lean, muscular arms to wrap it around his neck, craning my own to look up into that stunning, blonde face.

"Yeah, you're very romantic. Where did you learn that? Not from your family, that's for certain. And not from your friends, as they're all - what do they say here? Betes comme tes pieds?" I attempted, in my atrocious accent.

Now, it was Draco's turn to laugh.

"As smart as the bottom of your feet. Yes. No. I mean, I read, you know."

"I know you read. I found all of your copies of _Sensitif._ I didn't realize that you were such a sucker for hairless men."

"Hey." He scoffed. "I was all alone for three months. And you know what? I was so good." He pronounced the final two words with slow deliberation as he tightened his grip on my chest and rocked me slightly.

"Were you?" I asked honestly but, attempting to sound nonchalant, having not thought of it until now.

"So. Good. Which is remarkable, because all of the men here are so tall and raven-haired, and they all have this attitude like they don't have anywhere to be but in my bed." He taunted.

I wanted to slap him or pinch him in a mix of chagrin and cheekiness but decided to just take it for what it was - Draco. In fact, this was one of the lightest the wizard had been. He seemed to be glowing in the midday sun, cast off behind the wobbled glass of the big, old windows that made this flat so enchanting. Perhaps it was the combination of the sun and the steam and the dizzying scent of magical herbs but everything about this felt perfect. It was like we were self-contained. That no world existed outside of ours.

"How many men have you been with?" I asked.

"I don't know if that was the question that you wanted to ask." He corrected me, and I squirmed a bit in his lap.

"Okay, have you ever been with a woman?"

"I have."

"Who?" I asked, excitedly. "Do I know her?"

"You do." His voice maintained it's usual monotony, always deep and masculine, but cool and consistent.

Hermione had somehow managed to imbue me with her love of gossip over the last eleven years, and I was almost reeling with a kind of mischievous glee. I was delighted by this game that I had never played. Though we spoke often, our conversations rarely turned to the past. At Hogwarts, our eyes were forcibly turned to the future. Any glance over your shoulder could result in an unwanted wound from a ruined childhood or a dangerous power.

"Is it Pansy Parkinson?" I toyed.

"God no. She's monstrous, truly Harry give me some credit."

"Her younger sister?"

"Better, but no. Not a Slytherin. Hannah Abbot."

I was quite honestly, shocked. He sensed this and clarified for me.

"We were fourteen. She grew up down the street from me. When we were kids we used to spend hours running around the neighborhood, scraping our knees and climbing trees and all that stuff kids do. But my parents - my father - hated her. Hated her parents. And the summer before we started at Hogwarts, he started to prep me."

His voice trailed off for a moment, lost in the memory.

"Prepping me to join the Death Eaters. Subtly, at first. I was eleven. But, I couldn't see Hannah anymore. And as things in my house got more serious, I got angry. So, the summer of our third year, after a session with Lucius, I snuck out and I went over to Hannah's house, and I fucked her."

He laughed a little bit to himself, pulling his arms from around me to rub his face in embarrassment.

"Uh, it was terrible. I mean, I don't know, I was just so mad at my father. I had Theo. I had - I mean - I don't know why I did it. It was good though, important, to realize where I stood. I always knew, you know, without having to spend too much time thinking about what it meant. So, Hannah Abbott. The woman who turned me." He whispered the last sentence in my ear in a dramatic voice, and I laughed a little.

The story was unexpectedly heart wrenching. I had never heard Draco tell me about preparations to become a Death Eater, though I had always known, and I had suspected that those scars on his chest and back were more than just abuse. I struggled for a moment between steering the conversation towards or away from this, and decided that away may be better.

"So, was Theo your first then?"

"First…sex? No. Hannah was. Theo followed shortly afterwards, though. We had always been, uhm, experimenting with our sexuality. I think that even more than me, Theo knew who he was. He was never the kind of kid that wrestled with any internal struggles. An angst-free existence. I envy that about him, though after everything that's happened, I kind of worry that he's not spirited enough."

"Well," I chewed on my bottom lip. This was the most open that he had ever been. "He's your friend. So, he's my friend, right? And I think I'm spirited enough for both of us."

"Ha!" Draco chortled a single laugh, his mouth still open while his lip curled into his signature half-smile and his tongue traced the shape of his incisor, lost in thought. "Yeah. What's mine is yours." He shook his head and continued.

"So what about you, Harry? I know about Ginny - the fiery, young redhead - but how about Hermione? She's been looking pretty good lately. I watched her break through the lake earlier this summer like a little nymph. Have you?"

"You were scrying on me!" I scoffed, and scooping handfuls of water from the tub, I splashed them over my head into Draco's face until he had to grab me by the wrists and force me to stop.

"I was bored. I was hoping that you'd get in the water, but you were too caught up in those classic, Harry Potter, swimming thoughts. _Sensitif_ was just a bit too sensitive for me all the time." He crooned, moving my hands so that they rested in my lap, forcing me to resist the playfully sensual act that he was hoping for.

"Well." I began. "No. Not Hermione. She's a good friend. A great friend, really. Wicked smart and hard-working and compassionate. But, I honestly don't know what Ron sees in her."

"Have you ever…with Ron?" He was fishing.

"No!" I scoffed. "No. I uh, I had…with Seamus Finnegan."

"Whoa, Harry!" Draco was actually surprised. "My god, that's actually shocking. I'm experiencing shock right now."

"Why?" I hissed, though as usual, my mind flooded with thoughts of dread.

"Because Seamus is easy." He put a space between each word, as if he were trying to find the best way to speak his mind.

"I guess I'm not all that surprised. Or shocked. I'm sure he propositioned you, after he found out that the dangerous Slytherin that had stolen the heart of the Boy Who Lived was no more. There weren't a lot of options at Hogwarts. I probably found all of them before I found you. Seamus was the easiest to find."

With that, we sat in silence for a few minutes. Draco released my hands and I pulled them through the cooling water to examine them. They had gone pruned from our long stint in the bath, and examining them now, they looked like someone else's hands. I suppose that over the last two years, a lot of me has changed. Each time I really take a moment to examine a part of myself, it hardly seems to belong to the young boy that was forced to live in the closet under the stairs.

"Draco," I began.

"Harry."

"What did you father do to you?" I asked, hopefully.

"Are you finally working up the nerve to ask me about my scars?"

I was so transparent. I was a leaf or a petal or a sheet of wet paper. I vowed at this moment to attempt to be more of a mystery.

"I am finally working up the nerve to ask you about your scars."

The wizard stretched out his cramped limbs and reached over the porcelain lip of the bathtub to retrieve his pack of cigarettes. He shook it before he opened it, determining how many were left inside, and when satisfied, he flipped open the paper carton and expertly stuck one to his resiny bottom lip. He groped blindly for his wand, but couldn't find it. It was on the bedside table, where he usually set it. I slid across the tub and grabbed mine from the floor. Whispering a quick incantation, I produced a small flame which he used to light his cigarette. He once again became comfortable in the water. He sat in silence for a good while, blowing little white rings towards the ceiling with his fine, blonde eyebrows furrowed in reminiscent concentration. After some time, he finally decided to explain.

"My father never really hit me. I mean slapped me, yeah, when I was a kid. But, I was a terrible kid. Looking back as an adult, I probably deserved it." He paused.

"Then, when I was old enough to start wielding magic, I became old enough to sell myself over to the Dark Lord."

His story continued slowly, each sentence a memory being resurrected from the depths of his mind. With each word, it became harder for him to continue.

"Some of the scars came from spells. My father would blast me with crucio and sectumsempra, and then use dark magic to heal me. I don't know what spells he used. They were a gift from the Dark Lord. To show me, to show little boys, how good it was to be bad. He taught me killing curses when I was barely old enough to understand the implications of killing someone."

He swallowed and breathed in a ragged bite of air.

"He glorified a monster. He made me drink potions to bind me to darkness that scarred me. He took me to meetings, Death Eaters, and they invaded my mind, and if I had any thoughts that were against their cause, then they whipped me. Not just me. Theo. Crabbe and Goyle. It's the real dark mark. My chest. My back. It's how He knows that I am loyal. It's how they know that I am strong."

Tears were streaking down his face and I could feel my own heart swelling. The cigarette in his hand had burned away to nothing more than a singed filter and a thin stream of smoke. I had never seen another person experience true pain, but I felt in the deepest chasms of my soul that I knew what to do.

I wrapped my arms around his chest and buried my head in his hair. I held him tighter than I ever had, fearlessly, and I loved him. And I hoped that by some force of magic, he would feel that love, and know that as long as I lived, I would never let harm come to him again.


End file.
